


Because of the Suit

by lemonsorbae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Anyway, I’m seeing all those stupid pix of Cas in his stupid suit and I just can’t with him anymore. So I needed Dean feeling the same way. Wala:</p>
    </blockquote>





	Because of the Suit

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, I’m seeing all those stupid pix of Cas in his stupid suit and I just can’t with him anymore. So I needed Dean feeling the same way. Wala:

It is the suit’s fault. 

The last time Dean saw the guy he was wearing a bright blue gas attendant vest and going by the name of Steve. So yeah. Dean wasn’t exactly prepared for the tailored threads Castiel is now sporting; all long, smart lines and dark, sharp, angles. 

Its a world’s difference from the get up Cas had jumped Jimmy in and its doing things to Dean. Strange things. Bothersome, terrifying things. 

Wonderful things. 

"Hey, Dean you wanna slow down? We are still working a case." 

Cas excused himself to the bathroom a couple of minutes ago and Sam’s been giving him that look ever since they met up with the other man. The one that says, you’re-being-irresponsible-and-I’m-going-to-be-a-bitch-about-it. 

Dean hates that look. But it doesn’t stop him from downing another two fingers of whiskey. If he can get just drunk enough to not think so much about how electric Castiel’s eyes look against the monochromatic background framing his shoulders, or the way the inseam of his trousers hug his thighs and craddle his- that if he can just not think about that, he’ll be golden. 

Sam’s eyebrows pull down in disapproval, a frown forming on his face, but fuck him because he’s not having absolutely filthy thoughts about Castiel, former angel of the Lord. 

Or he better damn well not be. 

Castiel returns to their table with a slight scowl on his face and dammit if he doesn’t look just down right fuckable all moody and personally wronged like that. No, Dean. Bad thoughts. 

Their waitress reappears at the table just as Castiel’s sliding into his seat. Sam orders a beer, Dean tries to order another whiskey, but Sam intervenes with a polite, “He’ll just have a beer,” complete with that stupid puppy dog shit he pulls when he wants something, and then she’s moving on to Cas. 

"And for you, handsome?" she asks for the second time that night, her gaze glued to Castiel’s, her voice going all smokey, and screw her for whipping out the bedroom eyes and cleavage. 

"Just another beer," Castiel answers with that ridiculous growl of his. He keeps his eyes on the paperwork in front of him and the waitress leaves with a disappointed huff. 

Dean cannot, for the life of him, tear his eyes away from Cas and he rubs a hand over his mouth. He’s not sure what to assess first, the fact that his once niave best friend who got all deer in the headlights around women seems to have been replaced by a man who, apparently, blatantly ignores women’s passes as if bored, like it happens all tbe time, or the spike of jealousy he felt when the waitress practically propped her boobs on the table hoping Cas would take a peek.   
And then there was the relief Dean felt when Castiel didn’t even give the chick the time of day. 

Dean tugs at the collar of his starched, white shirt. 

More whiskey. That is what he needs. Sam’s opinion be damned. 

"Uh, waitress!" Dean throws two fingers in the air and looks around the joint. She appears back at their table, clearly annoyed, and raises an inquisitive eyebrow at Dean. "Can I get another whiskey?" he asks. 

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Castiel doesn’t let him get more than a couple of words out. 

"Leave him alone, Sam," Castiel commands, his eyes still dutifully trained on the papers in his hands, "he’s fine." 

Dean’s startled by Castiel’s intervention, but he simply turns to Sam and grins all cheeky and satisfied. “Yeah, Sammy. I’m fine.” he repeats. 

But Castiel’s not finished. “If he wants to get himself inebriated while working, that’s his decision.” 

Its Sam’s turn to flash a smug smile in Dean’s direction and he does so without the least bit of shame. Dean’s mouth opens and closes silently, like a fish on a hook, and then with a glare at both his brother and best friend Dean tells the waitress nevermind on the whiskey. 

She’s probably going to spit in their drinks. 

After that its back business. Castiel goes over what he knows about their case and what he still has questions on and Sam tries to help fill in the blanks. Dean tries to participate, he really does, but its nearly impossible. Between the way Castiel moves just as gracefully as a human as he did as an angel and the way his long, slender fingers curl around the neck of his sweaty beer bottle, there’re only about a dozen things Dean can focus on. And none of them have to do with the case. 

And even if those things weren’t distracting, the mantra inside his head definitely is; I will not fuck my best friend in the bathroom of a bar, I will not fuck my best friend in the bathroom of a bar, I will not- 

"Dean?" Sam’s voice infiltrates Dean’s thoughts, and he realizes he’s zoned out. Sam’s looking at him all concerned eyebrows and skeptical pout and that look is almost worse than the others he’s been shooting Dean all night. 

Dean clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says gruffly, “just uh, just thinking about the waitress. Some rack, huh?” Its a terrible save, but its all he’s got. 

Sam shakes his head and Castiel shifts in his seat almost as if he’s… Uncomfortable?

Now that’s an interesting turn of events. If he didn’t know better Dean would say Castiel looks almost jealous. 

Only one way to find out.

Dean ignores Sam completely now and turns his attention on Castiel. “Am I right Cas?” he asks, “Pretty little thing, aint she?” 

Castiel pales ever so slightly, but then shakes his head, his response a simple, “I hadn’t noticed.” His eyes flick to Dean’s, just a split second of bright blue, and then his gaze is back on the damn papers. Its a shadow of a reaction, but its enough and Dean has never been so damn grateful for a woman in tight clothing in his entire life. 

When the waitress returns with fresh beers, Dean pays her an awful lot of attention. He winks at her as she sets the bottles down and says, “thank you sweetheart,” as she clears the empties. He makes quite the show of watching her saunter off, her hips swaying with newfound hope and he’s at least going to have to leave her a phone number at the end of the night so he doesn’t feel like a complete ass for using her, but that’s a small detail, a tiny, little thing when compared to Castiel’s reaction. 

He hears the man call his name, but Dean ignores it, feigning interest in the retreating form of the waitress. The second time Castiel says his name its practically a shout and legitimately takes Dean by surprise. He snaps his attention back to Cas with eyebrows raised. 

"Yeah, Cas?" 

"May I please speak with you outside?" Castiel grates out, his eyes heated and serious and if the guy was still an angel, Dean would have no doubt he was about to smote. 

Dean puts an easy smile on his face and shrugs like the request isn’t shooting rivers of excited adrenaline through his veins. “Sure,” he answers evenly. 

Castiel pushes back from the table and stalks off, his chair rocking back on two legs before landing on all four again, and Dean offers Sam a shrug and then follows after the guy. 

Castiel’s retreated out a side door that leads into an alleyway. The air outside is sharp with the smell of musty water and wet pavement, and bitingly cold for November. Dean’s breath puffs out in front of him, a cloud of fine mist dissipating in the air and he shoves his hands into the shallow pockets of his suit pants to shield them from the cold. Castiel’s off in the corner, his body taught with irritation, his fists clenched at his sides and Dean approaches him slowly, like Castiel is a rabid dog that could lash out at any moment. 

"What’s up, Cas?" Dean asks as he comes to stand in front of his friend. Castiel’s eyes swing his way and even in the silver light of the moon he looks downright smoldering in his suit, his eyes reflecting off the blue of his tie, making them appear even more impossibly bright than they normally do. Dean doesn’t have time to wonder when the hell he started using words like "smoldering", especially in reference to his best friend, because said best friend is shoving him up against the old brick wall of the bar, curling his fingers around the lapels of Dean’s suit and kissing the everliving life out of him. Dean sees stars and forgets to breath because holy shit Cas is kissing him in a dirty, old alleyway outside a dive bar in Nowheresville, USA. 

There’s a rapidly growing warmth pressing against his thigh that could only belong to Castiel and he’d say something about it, crack some is-that-your-angel-sword-in-your-pocket-or-are-you-just-happy-to-see-me bullshit, if Dean wasn’t sporting a rival erection of his very own. 

As it were, Castiel pulls away and what falls out of Dean’s mouth is an incredibly eloquent, “uh, Cas?” 

He wants to ask what the hell they’re doing, but the words just won’t come; all of Dean’s focus going to Castiel’s spit-slick lips and slightly rumpled tie. And maybe, if left alone for a few more minutes, he could get his head about him, but Castiel has other ideas, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s hair and pulling until Dean’s throat is bared. 

Dean slips his hands beneath Castiel’s stupid, fucking suit jacket and fixes his hands to the other man’s hips, holding on with eyes clenched shut as Castiel goes to town on Dean’s neck and jaw. There isnt much to get at, the collar of his dress shirt getting in the way, and Castiel growls in frustration before loosening Dean’s tie and working open a few of the top buttons on his shirt. 

With more skin finally available to him, Castiel sucks and kisses at Dean’s neck like he’s got a vendetta out against it. Dean’s going to have some interesting bruises the shape of Castiel’s mouth to explain later, but he’s still trying to process that this is even happening and its taking up all the space in his brain leaving no room for witty explanations or topics of distraction. 

"Dean," Castiel breathes in between a bite and a hickey, "why did you flirt with that waitress?" 

Dean slides a hand to press at the small of Castiel’s back, propelling the man closer, and slips a thigh in the gap between Castiel’s legs, grinding down on the thigh he feels between his own as a result. Castiel moans, a delicious, sinful sound, and a satisfied warmth blooms in Dean’s chest. 

Okay so maybe this is only a couple of steps above fucking the guy in the bathroom, but really, this location is all on Cas, so… Details. 

"Wanted to make you jealous," Dean admits, finding the perfect rthym to rub himself out, "it’s this fucking suit’s fault. Walk in there like your James fucking Bond and expect me not to notice." Dean’s voice is coming out in a laborious pant and he lets his head fall back against the wall when Castiel rubs his thigh against Dean slow, and with just the right amount of pressure. "Fuck," Dean mutters because Castiel is actually going to make him come, practically untouched, in a sketchy alleyway. 

Sam must wonder what’s taking them so long. 

"You don’t have to act like a child to get my attention, Dean," Castiel half barks. He’s covering Dean’s mouth with his own again, but Dean still manages a retort. 

"Worked, didn’t it?" He questions. 

Apparently its the wrong thing to say. Or, the right thing, depending on which way Dean looks at it because at that Castiel pries himself away from Dean and yanks at the belt, and the button, and zipper on Dean’s pants. With nothing to hold them up they slide down his legs with a quiet swish, his belt buckle clinking against the ground when it hits, and Dean can’t help but notice Castiel is one impatient son of a bitch when aroused. 

The frigid air outside wraps around his exposed skin like two icy hands and his heart hammers in his chest as Castiel yanks Dean out of his underwear and then tests the weight of Dean in his hand, studies the thick, swollen head of his cock like its an endangered species. Dean opens his mouth to snap at the other man, tell him to quit gawking, but then Castiel’s hand is going for his own pants and before he can stop himself Dean’s gasping out, “Wait!” 

Castiel stops, his eyes floating to rest on Dean’s face and Dean is grateful for the cold turning his cheeks pink because he’s definitely blushing like a virgin with a promise ring. “Leave them on,” he mutters, keeping his eyes locked on Castiel’s. Castiel hesitates only a momet before nodding once and moving his fingers from the button on his pants to the zip. 

He pulls the zipper down in one swift movement, the teeth sliding out of each other smoothly, and then works himself out through the slit in his underwear and the open fly of his trousers. He pays himself no attention, not like he did Dean, instead pressing himself back against Dean and wrapping a hand around their erections. 

So much for coming untouched, is Dean’s last fully formed thought before everything melts away leaving nothing but him, Castiel, and the tight fist around them, the velvety feel of Castiel’s cock brushing against his own. 

Castiel gives them a few experimental pumps and then he’s off, his hand flying over their erections, his lips back on Dean’s neck. He’s muttering in Enochian now all semblance of poise forgotten, and dammit if that isn’t just the whipped cream on this mindblowingly, hot slice of pie, Dean doesn’t know what the hell is. He does know one thing for sure though: sex with anyone else is going to be extremely less satisfying after this. In fact, pissing Castiel off may just end up being Dean’s MO from here on out because he’s almost 100% certain he’s ruined and if that’s what it takes to get them both here, he’ll do it over, and over, and over again. 

Castiel’s rythm falters after a few minutes and Dean knows the other man is about .02 seconds away from go-time so he wraps a hand around Castiel’s and pumps along with him, forcing Castiel to tighten his grip on them both. It’s a moment or two more, who the hell really knows, and Castiel stiffens against him, teeth closing down on Dean’s neck as warm come spurts out and over their fists. The sting of the bite urges Dean’s release out as well, and the two of them stand there breathing hard, chests rising and falling against one another until the fog of orgasm clears. 

Dean wipes his hand on his jacket, he’ll have to have it cleaned, and expects Castiel to step away once they’ve both been tucked in, to leave Dean alone in the alley without a backward glance, but he doesn’t. Instead he puts both hands on either side of Dean’s face and presses a soft, almost tentative kiss onto Dean’s swollen lips. 

"I feel this suit was a wise investment," he states. 

Dean rests his forehead against Castiel’s and nods, ignoring the voice inside his head screaming at him to stop acting like a character out of a damn Nicholas Sparks novel (not that he’s ever read any). “I’d like to personally thank your tailor,” he mutters, “guy’s a damn genius.” 

"I- lost his card," Castiel offers after a brief moment of hesitation. Dean can tell he’s lying by the waver in his voice, but he pushes it aside for later. 

"So," Dean says, " should we go back?" 

"That depends," Castiel responds, "are you going to flirt with our waitress again?" 

Dean smirks, warmth glowing in his chest over the fact that he’d made Castiel jealous. “If it’ll get you all riled up again,” he says, “then hell yes.” 

Castiel shakes his head and mutters, ”Insufferable,” before pulling away from Dean and heading back into the bar.

Dean is quick to follow, but only after casting a prayer of thanks to the thread gods above for putting Castiel in that beautiful, fucking suit.


End file.
